


Hochmut kommt vor dem Fall

by tisiph0ne



Category: World War II - Fandom
Genre: Bondage, Gags, Nazis, Nazisploitation, PoW, Post-War, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:21:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22091743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisiph0ne/pseuds/tisiph0ne
Summary: He hates it when we gag him.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	Hochmut kommt vor dem Fall

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Gagged | Inktober Art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21011249) by [PeiperKrieg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeiperKrieg/pseuds/PeiperKrieg). 



He hates it when we gag him.

Not so much because he can't speak, I assume. After all, he spends most of his time in defiant silence anyway, scowling, lips pressed into a thin line. 

It's probably not the discomfort either. He strikes me as a man who can bear the ache as his jaw remains forced open, not merely for minutes but for hours on end. Perhaps he even welcomes the pain. There's something about him that suggests he does.

No, I think what he hates so much about the gag is not the forced silence or the pain, it's the loss of control. The fact that he can't stop himself from drooling. That he is reduced to a slobbering beast, mute, base, more animal than man. 

He doesn't like that at all. 

Of all the things he lost – his war, his freedom, his honour – he thought there'd be one thing we wouldn't be able to take away: his pride. This breathtaking, nerve-grating arrogance.

How utterly and ludicrously naive of him!

I would call such hubris endearing if I didn't know all too well what kind of business his people had been in: they sought to establish themselves as superior, as a master race, by stripping humanity away from those they deemed worthless. They did not just kill them. They worked them to death like animals. They used them like guinea pigs and they slaughtered them like sheep. 

They were as efficient about it as they were artless. And my little prisoner here – he knows all about it. I know he does. 

He also knows, twisting and turning in his bonds, groaning and grunting behind his gag, that I'm being kind to him. I'm not a butcher, I'm a surgeon. I want to keep him in one piece. I merely want to peel away his pride, pick at it like you pick at a scab to see what's beneath. 

I expect a quivering mass of exposed nerves and lost hope, fragile like fine glass, paper-thin, almost transparent, a small, stony heart pulsing with loss, but I can't know for sure. I will only know when I see, and I can't see unless I take his protective armour away.

It's easy to break someone with blunt force. Hard labour, starvation, sickness – it doesn't take much more than that to lay bare what's underneath all those layers of civilization. Humans are driven by the same instincts as any other living thing, most of all the will to survive. We will do almost anything to trick death, to escape our inevitable fate for only a little while longer. We will fight each other for scraps like dogs if we must. We will trample others to death in a panic. We will do unspeakable things to live just another day.

How tempting to consider yourself the exception from that rule, the supreme predator, the master of life and death. It's not as if I don't get the allure, now that I'm on top. It's not as if I'm not inclined to repay him in kind for what he did, for what _they_ did. I could have him riddled with bullets, throw him into a ditch while he's still breathing. I could lock him in a room with some pesticide or inject him with a deadly virus. I could expose him to cold and wait how long it takes for hypothermia to kill him, or I could put him in a house and set it on fire. 

_No quarter, no prisoners, no mercy._

I haven't forgotten. I will never forget. 

But I'm not like him. Not quite.

He struggles weakly against his bonds, spit trickling down his chin and onto his iron cross. 

I let him wear the uniform he takes so much pride in, complete with his medals. He wanted to die in that uniform so I give him the chance to soil it at least. It seems appropriate to grant him that kindness.

There is more I could do, more I want to do. 

I lower the book I've been reading, set aside all evidence of an outside world that is civilized and lawful and good. In here, in this room, there are no rules but mine. We're both cyphers, proxies in a conflict, just standing in for others who can't be here right now or not at all anymore.

I'm not attracted to him, but his groans, his grunts, the squirming – they make me want to strip him down to his underwear, see the thin white cotton stick to his skin, damp with sweat and other fluids, watch his stomach muscles flutter in panic. 

I reach for my gun, its weight familiar, reassuring in my hand. 

I lift it, drag the muzzle through his hair, which sticks to his head, greasy, sweaty, but I don't care. I stroke him with my gun. Gently I follow the shape of his skull. I press it against his temple, run it around his ear to the spot where his carotid throbs under the skin.

How easily I could put an end to it all. All it takes is a pull of the trigger. _No prisoners._

Something pulls tight inside me when I imagine how lovely he'd look, sucking the barrel of my gun as if it were my dick. He'd beg for it to come, I suppose, shoot its load into his mouth, powder and fire and steel. I'm sure he'd prefer a bullet to the brain over being humiliated like this. It's why I will keep it up. He can't have this last victory. I won't allow him to sneak away from justice like so many of his kind did. Not on my watch.

I take a step back and put my gun back into his holster. His eyes go dark with disappointment. Good.

This won't be the last time we play...


End file.
